


blister packs and butterfly knives.

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3501869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they told me you were no good / I know you'll take care of all my needs / you're the same kind of bad as me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blister packs and butterfly knives.

**Author's Note:**

> http://aquatank.tumblr.com/post/113016499141/chasingplotswithyou-so-i-have-a-challenge-for

sleeplessness in the bags under his eyes, in the crook of his neck where cold sweat pools, in the shake of his hands tied together with rope. teeth worrying at dead skin. teeth that haven't been brushed in a week. days blurring together under his eyelids, jaded nights glued to the roof of his mouth.

Wrong aims the flashlight at his eyes. pupils shrink away from the bright glare, and he tries to blink but fingers keep his eyes peeled open. now the other eye. the flashlight burns into his cornea.

in the background, thunder. growling. roaring. the camera zooms in. sweat rolling down his forehead, teeth drawing blood from his lips.

two streaks of lightning, vibrant, violent, rupture the purple-black sky. between the empty spaces in the rotting walls, the lightning makes clear, for a sharp second, Wrong's mask, Bad's camera. Bad's ski mask and gloves are discarded on the dirt floor but it's too dark to discern a human face. dirty hands, crusted with mud and blood. Wrong's fingers keep jay's darting eyes open. Bad's fingers flex around a baseball bat.

alex finally breaks out of the zip-ties and scuttles towards the gleam of lightning, throwing his weight against the weak walls. the bat swings through the air, the thunder rumbles, and he's back on the ground. jay's eyes follow his body as he lands with a hollow thud. he swallows, still can't blink even when Wrong pulls away their fingers.

"you should put some ice on that," jay suggests. quiet, faltering. he glances at the leg Wrong can't put weight on. "or, uh, go to a hospital. probably broken -"

sets the camera down by alex's head. the sound of a knife unfolding. cold blade pressed to jay's cheek. breathes deeply through his nose.

he leans back in the chair they've tied him to. the wood legs groan against the rope.

slick, oily voice. "would you run if we let you out of that chair?"

he gives them the same confused, scared look he's had on his face ever since he woke up. one second, he was in a small abandoned building listening to alex shout give me the knife, the knife, THE KNIFE, then he's in this shack with a flashlight pointed at him. and something else on his face, coursing under his skin, as wild as fear but not so desperate. electric as the weather outside.

"you can talk?" he asks, stunned.

digs the knife in until there's blood.

"I won't run, I won't, I promise," he hisses out in pain.

Bad gives Wrong the knife and they make short work of the ropes. jay rubs his arms but doesn't make a move out of the chair. blue eyes peer anxiously out from under the brim of a hat. he squints, trying to figure out who is who. he knows the feel of Wrong's fingers - and that should feel wrong, it sounds wrong when he puts it like that, but - and the way tim shouted when alex brought down the cement block, yes, it's the same voice. but somehow as unrecognizable as his other captor.

jay doesn't flinch away when Wrong touches the blood on his face. grimy hands smear the red like lipstick stains. tenderly cup his chin. the cut burns. it needs to be disinfected, it needs to be bandaged, it doesn't need a warm tongue tasting it. they lick up his face, slow, gentle, so as to not startle him.

in the dark they can't see how flushed his face is. Bad stands behind the chair, knife in hand. plastic tears as they cut into a blister pack and take out two pills.

"does it hurt?" close to his face. mask pressed to his neck, nuzzling. one half of their body leans against his chair for support. jay shakes his head, skin on fire, mouth open slightly.

a hand knocks his hat off his hand, grasps his hair, and turns him to face Bad. the air thrums as the storm recedes, echoes in the sky, claps of lightning fading away. they offer him the pills, and he recognizes the over-the-counter tranquilizers he takes to fight the insomnia that comes with hunting down whatever clue he picks up on.

he asks with his eyes, why? and they answer, "take these. wake up in your car. forget about this."

he stares at the small pills in their filthy hands. palm lines etched with dirt. worn-down fingernails scraping his scalp.

"I said I wasn't going to run away."

Wrong laughs, like skidding in the rain, like grinding gears. Bad joins in.


End file.
